


Penne for Your Thoughts

by kazz



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Baking, Cooking, Food Kink, Food Porn, Food as a Metaphor for Love, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 19:11:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4678112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kazz/pseuds/kazz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Wells goes old school in the kitchen, Len cooks with liquid nitrogen, and Barry will forever be the one that got away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Penne for Your Thoughts

**Author's Note:**

> This is my failed attempt at the Flash Big Bang. Unfortunately, I knew that I would never finish in time and had to drop out. I'm not very good at finishing stories, and am also horribly out of practice when it comes to writing, so bear with me. 
> 
> Special thanks to my assigned beta reader, Sam. Sorry I made you read the same thing over and over again and ended up dropping out anyway. Also a big, ginormous thanks to my best friend in the whole world, [razz](http://archiveofourown.org/users/razz/pseuds/razz), who has been my sounding board, my editor, and my adviser on practically every paragraph of this thing.

**_CentralCityFoods.Com_ **

**_Rogue: A Wild Ride, Ending with a Bang_ **

**_By Iris West_ **

_“I have a confession: I am a reality cooking show addict. Big surprise, I know. At the end of a long, grueling day there is nothing I love to do more than kick off my heels, throw on my fluffy flannel pajamas, and curl up with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Chubby Hubby ice cream to watch the latest episode of Iron Chef on the Food Network. It was one such occasion about three years ago that I first saw him: Chef Leonard Snart._

_With all of the wildly innovative creations that happen at “Kitchen Stadium” weekly – from white chocolate soup, to lingonberry pasta, to salmon ice cream (Yes, that’s right, salmon ice cream, I kid you not.) – it is nearly impossible to stand out amongst all of the culinary masterminds that walk up on that stage. But Chef Snart did. I listened to his customary bio with half an ear and vague interest; he spoke as if announcing his campaign for office: clear enunciation and grand hand gestures, wearing self-confidence like a big puffy coat. He was born and raised in Central City to a single parent home and never spent a day in any official cooking classroom. (Why is it that so many of the World’s top chefs never went to cooking school? Naturally I started to pay more attention at this point.) Instead his gastronomic education bounced from noodle houses in Taiwan to bistros in Paris to street vendors in Cancun and Michelin star restaurants in Metropolis – with a few stops to kitchens in Lima, Milan, and Melbourne in between, just to name a few. A worldly chef with humble beginnings from my hometown who fought tooth and nail to make his way to the top? I think I may have swooned, just a little._

_What really caught my attention, however, was his presence, how he took charge of the entire room and commanded his staff like a general heading out to war. He might have spoken with the boisterousness of a politician but proceeded with the execution of a shrewd strategist. There was never a moment of hesitation, of bewilderment, of imperfection; I don’t think I even saw him sweat a single drop between the blaring fluorescent lights and the geyser steam pots. Every step, every chop, every pinch of spice seemed in sync and meticulously planned –rumor has it that his staff half-affectionately, half fearfully call him “Captain Cold”._

_The result of such perfectionism was a phantasmagorical array of what could only be described as plated art, each dish more astonishing and enchanting than the last, and from the reactions of the judges, unbelievably delicious as well. “Bold,” “daring,” and “mind-blowing” were just some of the words used to describe his presentation, but even they seemed inadequate considering the man had the gonads to serve, well, gonads, for dessert (Goose gonad fritters with lavender saffron and coffee bean cream to be exact. That might have just topped the salmon ice cream for scariest dessert ever created.). He was awarded higher scores across the board against Iron Chef Morimoto, including plating. NO ONE beats Iron Chef Morimoto in plating!_

_Needless to say, when I heard Chef Snart was returning to his roots and starting his own restaurant right here in Central City, I nearly had a heart attack. For five long months, I have waited for the grand opening of “Rogue” at the corner of Brookfield and City Center, and then another six weeks for my spot on the waitlist. (Apparently I’m not the only reality cooking show addict in Central City.) I was instructed to arrive promptly at 6:38pm, which was strangely specific, but I was willing to indulge. Turns out, it was a part of Chef Snart’s master plan, my compliance resulting in what might have been a truly perfect dining experience. Upon arriving at 6:38, I was immediately greeted by name, without having to ask for my reservation; the hostess, already armed with a menu and wine list, fully prepared to escort me to my seat. If nothing else, Rogue has truly phenomenal service. When I finished my glass of wine, a waiter was already at my elbow with bottle in hand and ready to pour; when there were crumbs on the table (There were hardly any, I swear!) it was instantly swept away from sight; when I was savoring the last bite of each course, my dirty dishes were instantly replaced by my next culinary venture. There was never a moment when I was left waiting or wanting._

_The décor of the restaurant was modern and trendy, from the dark blue walls to the sleek walnut wooden furniture. Two of the walls consisted mostly of tall windows with polished chrome finishing and provided a fun view of the chic neighborhood outside. Swirling blown glass reminiscent of ice crystals hung from the high ceilings and filled with light. The space felt vast and open, so that the noise wasn’t too overwhelming despite the fact that every table was filled with diners, all happily chatting with some cheers and claps bursting out on a regular basis; it seemed like very good sign._

_Coming in, I honestly didn’t know what type of food, exactly, Rogue would serve, having avoided customer reviews like one would avoid spoilers to a blockbuster movie.  I was first presented with an amuse bouche of “butter chips” with cardamom and macadamia nut. The chips were golden and so delicate I could practically see through them, crispy on my teeth, and vanished into thin air on my tongue, leaving behind an incredibly rich flavour that made my mouth water. Like the chips, my pessimistic fears that Chef Snart’s reputation was all hype seemed to have magically disappeared. I ordered the six course tasting menu, each dish remarkable and impressive in its own way, astounding me with impossible presentations and opened my mind with unusual yet balanced combinations. One of the dishes I found particularly of note was the tempura shrimp, stretched unbelievably tall and winding up in a tornado-esque spiral. The tempura batter was satisfyingly crunchy yet light as a cloud, and surprisingly crackled in my mouth, like tiny electric shocks to my taste buds. Another dish I enjoyed was the linguine, which came out in a paper-thin phyllo wrap that was promptly set on fire and burned away to reveal a bed of al dente squid ink noodles with firecracker peppers and sriracha caviar pearls, topped with red baby octopus. My absolute favourite was the lamb chops with blueberry mint emulsion and blue polenta cakes sprinkled with liquid nitrogen saffron “ash” to create an almost haunting, yet beautiful, image. It was immediately apparent that everything on that plate was meticulously thought out, from the placing of each polenta cake to the artful swipe of blueberry sauce and perfectly cooked, melt-in-your-mouth lamb chops. The liquid nitrogen mist swirled all around my table, enveloping me in a deep, earthy yet sweet scent and for a moment I had forgotten I was simply having dinner in my hometown instead of halfway around the world on some mystical adventure. The elements of that dish -- the flavours, visuals, smells, and texture -- were all stunningly well balanced and highly complementary to each other._

_The first course had blown my mind, and yet each course following was impossibly able to surpass the one before, but perhaps that was not an entirely good thing. You can imagine how exceedingly high my expectations for dessert must have been at this point; maybe a little too high. Earlier I touted the exemplary punctuality of the staff, but there may have been a slight blemish on their heretofore spotless record as I waited a little longer than expected for the grand finale. An ominous sign, but the waiter kept my wine glass filled and I kept telling myself the longer the wait, the greater the result, right? Turns out, not so much. No gonad fritters, unfortunately. Instead I was presented with a monstrous creation not seen since Frankenstein: plum and lavender souffle which might have been moist and rich and delicious, but I never had the chance to find out because once my fork pierced the seemingly fluffy cake, it exploded and shot purple cream right into my face! There was a moment of silence as everyone around me starred in utter shock, with those who had also just acquired their desserts cautiously pushing their plates away. My server rushed to my side and apologized profusely, offering to bring me a different option from the menu but frankly, I was a bit weary at this point. Apparently there is a fine line between genius and madness, and the exploding soufflé rocketed past it without ever looking back.  A major disappointment to what otherwise would have been an unparalleled meal, but I suppose brilliance has a limit._

_I was rather surprised that Chef Snart would choose the molecular gastronomic style for his new restaurant, quite reminiscent of Chef Wells’s restaurant, STAR Labs, before “The Incident” forced it to shut down nearly nine months ago. Despite the tragic event that occurred, I was a little saddened to see it go, losing the one restaurant in town that dared to break limits and always offered something eye-openingly different when I wasn’t in the mood for Italian, Chinese, Thai, or anything else I’ve had a million and one times before. It seems like Rogue is a capable successor that will easily step up and fill that hollowed space in my life with its exceptionally innovative creations, most of which were good, one of which was very, very bad. However, that is not nearly enough to stop me from coming back, just skip dessert next time! 3 Stars”_

Leonard finished reading the review on his phone without a hint of care or interest, but there was a minute downturn of the corners of his lips and furrow of his brow most wouldn't have noticed when he read about the dessert. He let out an exhausted sigh and slouched down a little further, his muscular frame and thick blue parka almost spilling out of the torn up old chair.

There were seventeen other people in the hospital waiting area, and the fourteen that weren’t his employees were all crammed together into the opposite corner, with most of them preferring to stand instead of actually sitting closer to the group of crazies. Len really couldn’t blame them. The white, crisp chef jacket he had on underneath his coat was missing a good quarter of the right sleeve, the edges singed. Luckily, the now exposed skin had only suffered a minor burn. It was nothing new; his body was littered with a dozen scars of worse abrasions, but the jacket would have to be thrown out. Today had not been a good day.

"She forgot your longest job yet: the oh-so-luxurious cafeteria at Iron Heights Penitentiary," Mick Rory helpfully supplied from the seat beside him, their arms practically squished together, shoulder to wrist. Len had known Mick for eighteen years of his life, and he was what Len would grudgingly call his best friend. They met back when they were both young and stupid, with Len getting paid ridiculous amounts of money to “procure” some very interesting stuff for some very sketchy people. Mick was one of the hired “muscle” for those sketchy people, and just happened to be on duty when the cops busted in on a delivery. After the shooting stopped and the smoke cleared, they were both sent to Iron Heights and once they got that first obligatory punch out of the way, became close friends. It wasn’t long before Len was subjected to the other man’s odd poetic waxing of all things food and drink. To Mick, eating was a religious experience, and his dedicated worship had gifted him with more technical culinary knowledge and theories than any seasoned teacher Len had ever met.

They had later run into each other in various kitchens around the world, and when Len decided to open his own restaurant, Mick was the only one he would accept as his sous-chef. Which led them to this point: sitting in the Central City ER at three o'eight in the morning, looking even more like the criminals they used to be. Mick's clothes were in worse condition than Len's; both his sleeves were burnt and there was a worrisome amount of blood splashed over his front, a few droplets speckling the right side of his face as well.

"Weren't you in jail in Lima too?"

"Panama," Len corrected, not bothering to open his eyes, much less lift his head from its not-really comfortable resting position. "But I broke out after a couple of weeks. In Lima, I merely avoided the authorities and got out of there." Mick nodded but didn't add anything else.

"Could have been worse with the dessert, really. She was lucky it was free of blood...or fingers!" Shawna Baez piped up two seats down from Mick, her cheek resting on her upturned hand. Len didn’t know Shawna as well as some of the others under his employ, having never worked with her before but his sister had, and she’d assured him that Shawna was more than capable. He’d put her in charge of the amuse-bouche as a trial run, and she had proven herself to be one of his more competent and reliable staff, able to avoid causing any major havoc in his kitchen until tonight.

She was the only one in the group who’d had enough sense to take off her gruesome jacket and wipe her face clean before heading to the hospital, although there was probably some caked blood stuck in her hair. She needed a shower, badly, and almost said "screw it" to head home after such a fucktastic day, but a nagging sense of guilt had dragged her to the ER. A pounding in her head had started a few hours ago, which now had developed into a full grown migraine.

"Well, you're the genius that just had to chop off Axel's hand," and finally it was Mark Mardon's turn to speak, awkwardly crammed into the chair between Mick and Shawna. Both of his sleeves were singed as well, and the blood covering most of his jacket was made all the more horrifying with the bits of fish guts splattered everywhere. Mick had introduced Len to Mark years ago as the “Fish Wizard” (Although Mark had protested vehemently against the title to no avail) when Mark and his brother, Clyde, had been working as fishermen and supplied Len with the freshest catch on the east coast. Their company also may or may not have dabbled in the meth producing business on the side, but that was a moot point. After Clyde died in an unfortunate boating accident during a freak storm, Mark decided that it was time for a change. Thanks to Mick, who had been insisting for years that Mark had the magic touch when it came to all things seafood, Mark was shoved head-first into the glamorous world of professional cooking. So far so good.

Shawna whipped her head around to give Mark a fierce glower, her teeth bared in a hiss. "It was only two fingers! And it wasn't my fault that Axel's hand got in the way of my knife! Kitchen rules, if you get between a knife and the food, it's your own damn fault. Besides, you didn't help any by trying to superglue his fingers back on!"

"Well, that was a much better solution than Mick trying to burn them together with the brulee torch!"

"It really wasn't." God, Shawna desperately needed some girl friends. How were men this stupid?

"Cauterizing wounds is a legitimate medical procedure!" Mick vehemently defended, propelling his body forward so that he could give both Mark and Shawna his full on glare.

"Not when it comes to severed limbs! There are a bunch of nerve endings and blood vessels and connective tissues–" Shawna broke off and slammed herself back into her chair. Her fists were clenched, her jaw tight. Usually she wouldn't back down to Mick or Mark or anybody, but today had truly sapped all the strength from her and the roaring in her head was just getting worse and worse. What was the point anyway? Axel would still be in surgery, might lose his pinky and ring finger forever, they would have still fucked up in epic proportions on the one night a damn food blogger with over ten-thousand followers decided to show up and now they'd forever be branded as the special kinds of stupid that thought exploding cake in customers’ faces was artsy! Although that was completely on Axel. He must have been on some serious hardcore shit tonight if he came up with that combination. Letting that soufflé make it out to a table was on them, though. Tonight had been such a crazy, wild blur that Shawna had no idea who it was that shoved it into the screeching waiter's hand to get him out of the kitchen. Maybe it was her, or all of them.

Did it make her a bad person that she cared more about a less than stellar review than maiming her coworker's hand? Despite what Axel was screaming into her face earlier as she stood there in shock still holding the bloody paring knife, it was not on purpose. Sure he was annoying as hell and never shut up about being the son of the greatest sugar sculpture artist alive, but she didn't want to hurt him...this much...outside of her fantasies. Shawna's pretty surprised Cold's kept him around this long, to be honest, but it's never affected his baking skills much before, just mostly made him unbearably obnoxious. He was always so loud and bouncing all over the kitchen, knocking into everybody and everything. He also liked to pull pranks that made them all want to wring his neck; like throwing bottle rockets into full pots and dyeing their uniforms rainbow. But she guesses he got a little bit of leeway being a "legacy".

A moment of silence passed by the foursome, each practically ready and waiting to fall unconscious right then and there. "Well," Mick heaved an exaggerated sigh, sitting up straighter, " I consider this night more or less a success." He then proceeded to pull out four spotted shot glasses from one inside pocket of his jacket and a flask from the other. After distributing the glasses to each of his friends – who all accepted them with barely raised eyebrows – and clinking them together, he raised his arm in a toast, "Cheers."

"You guys are not drinking those here," a very familiar voice interrupted before they all could down their shots. Nurse Bette Sans Souci had been stuck working the night shift at the ER for over six months now, and had seen many combinations of the chefs of Rogue more often than not. On their opening night, Mick had to be treated for some third degree burns, their second night, Bivalo for a scratched cornea, their third, Lisa for a concussion and Len for two broken toes, and it just piled on from there. It was actually pretty surprising they managed to avoid permanent maiming until now.

"Nurse Souci," Len greeted her, opening his eyes with visible effort and lifting his head for a curt nod.

"Chef Snart, Chef Rory, Chef Mardon–-glad to see your eyebrows have grown back--, Chef Baez," she greeted each of them in turn. Mick held out his glass to her, and she gave him an unimpressed look.

Mick just shrugged, "You probably deserve it more than us."

Bette snorted, "You know it," before accepting the shot and downing it, completely ignoring the newbie giving her the stink-eye from thirty feet away. "Damn, that's good. You always have good stuff." She passed the glass back to Mick who proceeded to fill it again with his flask.

"Top shelf whiskey," Mick murmured almost affectionately to his drink. "Perks of working in a swanky restaurant." Bette rolled her eyes before walking away to get back to work. All those addicts looking for drugs weren't going to kick themselves out.

Mick raised his glass again and brought it to his lips, but before he could finally taste his treasured smuggled liquor, the doors burst open and Lisa stormed her way towards the half-dead group, her five-inch stiletto leather boots pounding on the hospital floor like the horses of hell. She walked past a frozen Shawna and Mark without even a glance of acknowledgement, snatching up Mick's glass and downing the shot herself. Mick could only sputter in protest as she tossed the empty glass back at him and proceeded to steal his flask and take a big swig directly from it.

"Bad news?" Len ventured, more amused at her dramatics.

"Great news, actually," Lisa responded with a forced pleasant expression, her voice dripping with poisoned honey. "The doctors will be able to sew his fingers back on and with a bit of therapy he'll regain at least eighty percent of his range of motion. He'll also be rolling in dough once his lawsuit against us kicks in, and then he and his psycho dad will blow up the restaurant, just for shits and giggles."

Len didn't seem concerned in the slightest. "Don't worry, Sis. I'll talk to Axel. Everything will be taken care of."

"What are you going to do? Threaten to chop off his whole hand this time?" Mark asked skeptically.

"I'll take care of it." The confident smirk never left Len's face, and that's all it took for everyone to release some tension in their tightly coiled shoulders and breathe a little easier. All would be right with the world, because Captain Cold would take care of it. Whatever that meant.

*****

It was 3:40 am before the group finally left the ER. Shawna, Mick, and Mark ended up sharing a cab home while Lisa drove Len in their own car since out of the two of them, Len would be more likely to crash into a lamp post with the state he was in. He was half nodding off, his head pressed against the cool window, but he couldn’t sleep, not yet.

“I’ll have to stop by my office first, pick up some resumés,” he murmured, still with his eyes closed.

“Oh, I already have an interview set up for tomorrow morning at eight.” That was…suspicious. When did Lisa even have time to do that? Somewhere in between yelling at Axel and yelling at the doctors and then yelling at him and his staff, he’d imagine. But then who the hell would pick up the phone at this godforsaken hour to come in for a job interview?

“Just one?” Len was fully awake now, his eyes sharp and zeroed in on Lisa’s profile.

“Just one,” Lisa confirmed, her face completely innocent.

“Who?” This couldn’t be good. He knew that look. That was the “I’m Going to Give You a Stroke But You Can’t Kill Me Because I’m All You Have Left In This World” look.

“Just some guy who came in a couple of weeks ago.” Len waited for Lisa to elaborate, but she didn’t. This must be really bad.

“Lisa,” he drawled out her name in clear warning, “what are his qualifications? What restaurants has he worked in?”

“Well…” she sucked on the corner of her lip before remembering that she was probably ruining her lip gloss. “He just finished pastry school—“

“’Just finished?!’ Lisa, what were you thinking?!” Len couldn’t believe this! What in the world had possessed her to do something so incompetent?! When he made her his restaurant manager, it wasn’t just nepotism. She had followed him to each restaurant he’d worked at, learned the ins-and-outs of the business, labored through being a bartender, waitress, floor manager. She had a knack for getting cheap-ass customers who tried to get out of paying a check, to sit back down and buy another bottle of wine, while handing over their credit card and telling her to make sure to add a nice big tip. He trusted her, through and through, and yet here she was making such an amateur move? He had dozens of chefs, with decades of experience, from the finest restaurants all over the country willing to give their legs for a chance to work in his kitchen, but the first one she calls for an interview was some dumb kid that probably thought just because he paid for a piece of paper from a fancy school, he knew everything there was to know about being a chef? “He’s barely qualified to be my dishwasher!”

“And why is that? Because you didn’t meet him in prison? You know it might be nice to have just one employee we won’t have to worry about using our back room for drug deals or being gunned down by the cops!”

“No felony convictions besides me and Mick,” Len defended.

Lisa tilted her head in thought for a second. “Mardon?”

“Insubstantial evidence, charges were dropped.” She just rolled her eyes.

“Anyway, that’s not all. I’ll have you know that this guy came with a personal letter of recommendation from Oliver Queen.” Len gave her an incredulous look. Oliver Queen was probably the living embodiment of a celebrity chef. He was the host and star of a handful of cooking shows on multiple channels, has his own line of pots and knives, and owns no less than seven different restaurants in four different cities. Len had met him briefly during his guest star appearance on Iron Chef and immediately thought he was a douche. Lisa hadn’t been in the green room at the time to see the whole thing go down, but according to Mick, the situation had deteriorated to Queen and Len trying to shank each other with broken wine bottles, while Mick was fending off Queen’s sous-chef, John Diggle, with a muffin basket and a butter knife. They had never been invited back on the Food Network after that, but Len had gotten her Alton Brown’s autograph, so Lisa couldn’t be too mad at him.

“He said, and I quote,” Lisa continued a bit smugly, “’He is a baking prodigy’, ‘never before have I met someone with such mastery over the art of pastry making’, ‘His cupcakes restored my faith in humanity.’ etcetera, etcetera.”

“Oliver Queen seriously said this guy’s cupcakes restored his faith in humanity?” Len couldn’t for the life of him imagine Queen ever saying something so utterly ridiculous, short of someone holding a gun to his pretty, rich-boy head. Although to be fair, Len’s encounters with the pompous asshole had mostly consisted of him trying to smash Queen’s head through a wall. The guy could be crying over Twilight and lurking in the dark corners of poetry slams in his spare time, for all Len knew. Lisa wouldn’t lie to him about this (She would definitely come up with something better if she were.) and she must have a good reason for picking this kid over all of the other more qualified applicants…

“I swear it’s true.” Of course, the letter might or might not have been written by Queen’s manager, Felicity Smoak, but Len didn’t need to be boggled down by such technicalities. Besides, it was still entirely possible those were Queen’s own words…highly unlikely, but possible. The guy signed it, nonetheless, and that’s what was important. She gave herself an imaginary pat on the back as she could see her brother's resistance crumbling. Len might call Queen a plethora of demeaning names, ranging from “fame seeking dickhead” to “pretentious sellout”, but “bad cook” was never one of them. As much as he might despise the other chef's personality, he’d still give credit where credit was due, and Oliver Queen was one damn good cook.

“Fine, but I'm still going to set up more interviews later.”

“Fine, but I think you'll really love this guy, Lenny. He's very cute.” Her expression was completely coy, causing his frown to return tenfold.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Nothing, I'm sure he's a fantastic baker...who just happens to have big green doe eyes, a bright smile that rivals the sun, and sexy legs that go on for miles.”

“'A bright smile that rivals the sun'? Did you come up with that all by yourself just now?” His only answer was a careless shrug. “Lisa, you know I have a strict no fraternization policy.”

“Yes, but you made that policy and therefore can change it.”

“I did not, in fact, make that policy. It was very wise advice given to me by--”

“By your mentor in Iron Heights, the one that completely changed your life by introducing you to the joys of cooking and turned you away from a life of crime. I know, I’ve heard it a million times before, Lenny.”

“The point, Lisa, is that policy is there for a reason. Things are good now. We finally have our own place, our own business, and we don't need that to come crumbling down on our heads due to some sexual harassment lawsuit.”

“Sexual harassment would actually be one of the more minor charges that's been brought against you.”

“But still not worth the trouble. Besides, I haven't even seen this guy. There's a good chance I won't even like him.”

Lisa gave him a look that clearly translated to “Bitch, please,” as she pulled the car into the back of Rogue. Before heading up to their shared apartment above the restaurant, Len made a point to stop by his office and grab the file marked “Resumés, Dessert.” He was half tempted to reject Lisa's set up out of principle, but it shouldn't hurt too badly to meet him. At the very least he could probably enjoy an hour of watching some air headed twink traipsing around his kitchen, getting a little sweaty kneading dough. But he would definitely set up interviews with more prospective candidates either way. He scanned through the applicants, making note of the more promising ones, working until his vision started swimming and he thought his eyeballs were going to burst out of his skull. Finally giving up after twenty-six minutes, Len went to bed where he passed out before his head even hit his pillow.


End file.
